


maddeningly

by thegreatpumpkin



Series: these many years [5]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M, hair jokes never get old
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-20
Updated: 2016-05-20
Packaged: 2018-06-09 13:28:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6909289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegreatpumpkin/pseuds/thegreatpumpkin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Glorfindel laughed at his expression. “You could pass me a comb, if you’re so displeased.”</p><p>“One of these days,” Ecthelion said, as he fetched a wooden one from the dresser—less likely to break in Glorfindel’s mad tangles than his fine bone ones— “I am going to shear it all off while you sleep.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	maddeningly

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gmuhh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gmuhh/gifts).



> Happy birthday to my darlingest snuskens, who is absolutely to blame for the running jokes about Glorfindel's hair in this series.

Glorfindel was sprawled, loose-limbed and happy, across Ecthelion’s very disordered bed. His hair fanned out around him in a great halo like light around Arien’s chariot—or at least, he liked to think that was what it was like. Ecthelion tended to be less poetic about it, or more poetic but very much less complimentary.

Then again, Ecthelion was so very rarely complimentary unless he wanted something, so Glorfindel preferred his mockery.

Ecthelion had put a loose shirt on, though, pleasingly, nothing else. Glorfindel watched him lazily as he moved around the room putting out the candles and felt a surge of triumph. Ecthelion hadn’t chased him out, so he would stay. It was a rare treat sleeping here, waking up with Thel’s face tucked against the curve of his neck, or Thel’s body close against his back, a hand resting possessively on his hip.

So rare as to be practically nonexistent, in fact. He tried not to call attention to it, lest it be taken away, but he could not stop grinning.

Ecthelion leaned against the bedpost, carrying the last candle, and raised an eyebrow at him. “I don’t think there’s room for the both of us and your hair. Am I to sleep in my study for your vanity?”

“You’re the one who threw me down this way,” Glorfindel laughed. “Don’t pretend you don’t like it.”

“I would have thrown you down just the same if you had that monstrosity properly contained. Even sooner, probably.” Ecthelion clucked disapprovingly. “Tie it back, at least, if you won’t braid it. I have no wish to wake up bound by your unruly tresses.”

“I can’t sleep with it tied back.” Glorfindel sat up halfway, though only to grant the incredibly minor concession of sweeping the hair to one side, away from Ecthelion. “There. Now you’re safe.”

Ecthelion rolled his eyes expressively, setting the candle aside without putting it out. Still, he slid into bed beside Glorfindel, stretching out on his stomach, laying a hand flat on Glorfindel’s shoulder and resting his chin on the back of the hand. “I can’t understand you, you know. Even if your vanity’s to blame, you’d still do better to bind it back and show off that jawline.” He stretched out fingertips to stroke a path along it, and Glorfindel closed his eyes with a pleased sigh. “And this neck.” He shifted inwards, pressing lips to Glorfindel’s throat; Glorfindel tipped his head back.

“Are you trying to say my _neck_ is my best feature?”

“Definitely not. Your ass is your best feature, but I wouldn’t exactly advocate for keeping that uncovered.” Ecthelion pushed him over onto his side, groping him gently as Glorfindel laughed. “Not in public, at least.”

“Romantic,” Glorfindel murmured wryly, though he stretched a hand back to Ecthelion’s hip, pulling him close.

“Where did you get the impression I had any interest in romance?” Ecthelion’s hand slid lower as he pressed himself half-hard against Glorfindel’s back. “Then again, maybe your best feature is your thighs.”

“My _thighs_?” His skepticism came out in a lazy drawl.

“Strong thighs,” Ecthelion went on against his neck, laughter in his voice. “I especially love when they’re wrapped around my waist, with you sighing _oh, Thel_ in my ear while I…”

“ _Ecthelion_.” Glorfindel couldn’t tell if the heat in his cheeks was embarrassment or desire.

“Close enough.” Ecthelion tugged him onto his back again, sliding hands up his sides and pinning his arms above his head. Glorfindel didn’t resist, tipping his chin up for a kiss which was happily granted; after a moment he spread the previously praised thighs, running a foot along the back of Ecthelion’s calf as he shifted between them.

It was a long while before they put the candle out.

~

In the morning, Glorfindel was a cheerful, sleepy, fuzzy mess. Ecthelion had already dressed and put himself in order before Glorfindel had done much more than stretch and halfheartedly _consider_ rising, and was now eyeing him with distaste.

Glorfindel laughed at his expression. “You could pass me a comb, if you’re so displeased.”

“One of these days,” Ecthelion said, as he fetched a wooden one from the dresser—less likely to break in Glorfindel’s mad tangles than his fine bone ones— “I am going to shear it all off while you sleep.”

Glorfindel began working the knots out, giving him a cheeky smile. “I’m flattered. It’s more customary to keep a single lock as a token, but if you love me that well, I suppose it will always grow back.”

Ecthelion was unamused. “Do you keep your ego in your hair? That would explain why there is so much of both.”

“Hmm. Since you’re so threatened by it, I suppose I can put it back.”

“Of course I’m threatened by it, it’s tried to consume me on multiple occasions.” Ecthelion glanced at him sidelong, suspecting—with good reason—there was more to that offer than the obvious. “Just like that?”

Glorfindel shrugged. “It’s a warm day. Why not? I do know how to braid, believe it or not.”

Ecthelion was still suspicious. “Maybe you should let me do it. It’s easier on someone else.”

“Best not,” Glorfindel said, fighting a grin. “You might lose a hand. I think it’s growing sentient. Besides, I’m fairly sure you have trainees awaiting your expert guidance, O Lord of the Fountain.”

Ecthelion glanced at the angle of the sunlight slanting in the window and muttered a curse. Well, he’d call it an exercise in patience, and make anyone who wasn’t standing at attention waiting for him do a few extra drills. Still, he couldn’t linger, and Glorfindel knew it.

“Don’t worry, I’ll show myself out,” Glorfindel told him cheerfully, dividing his newly-combed mane into thirds.

~

“Something on your mind, cousin?” Elemmakil asked mildly, after the sixth or seventh time Ecthelion’s attention drifted away from the drills happening in front of them. “You haven’t cut any of these bright young things down to size yet today. I’d do it, but they all know I’m a soft touch.”

Ecthelion started to make some excuse, but when he turned to look there was something smug in Elemmakil’s expression, and his eyes were fixed on the same place Ecthelion’s had been only a moment ago: a bright head on the far side of the training ground.

“Mind your manners,” he said instead, sharply. “And don’t forget to whom you speak.”

“I never do, my lord.” Elemmakil turned and strode off, barking an order at the assembled trainees, before Ecthelion could decide if he was being repentant or sarcastic.

Ecthelion decided to let the matter drop. He tried to focus on the buzz of activity before him, but his eyes were drawn again and again to where Glorfindel and one of his men watched from the sideline.

It was not unusual for them to be there. Ecthelion frequently watched the other Houses training their men, looking for ways he could improve his own; it was considered a mark of respect, an acknowledgement that there were things they still could learn from one another. Glorfindel had dropped by before, sometimes to observe, sometimes just to see what Ecthelion was up to and when he would be free.

It was the _braid_ that was distracting. Glorfindel had, indeed, bound back his hair. Ecthelion probably should have known that he’d find a way to do it that irritated him just as much as when it was unbound. To start, it was a single braid, thick and messy, with curls escaping every which way. It looked as if a child had plaited it, and—maddeningly—it somehow made Glorfindel look even more appealing than usual. It certainly answered none of Ecthelion’s warnings about getting caught in things or blinding Glorfindel in a fight, given it seemed likely to explode out of its tie at the least provocation.

In fact, the only thing it _did_ do successfully was reveal the line of Glorfindel’s throat and jaw, the line he had stroked and kissed and bitten along so thoroughly last night, Glorfindel’s chiming laughter beneath his mouth. It was infuriating. He had things to _do_ today, things that did not involve a nearly obsessive focus on Glorfindel’s terrible hair. It was unforgivable.

At last, giving it up as a lost cause for the day, he left the remainder of the training in Elemmakil’s hands, fiercely ignoring the raised eyebrows he got in return. It was a temporary respite, though; too many of the day’s tasks were shared with Glorfindel, from the weekly luncheon with some of the city’s guild representatives to the budget meetings with Turgon. Ecthelion was further aggravated to see how no one, not even the king, seemed the least bit bothered about Glorfindel’s state of disarray. If Ecthelion had come to a council meeting looking like that, he was certain he would have received a stern talking-to afterwards.

At last, when they left Turgon’s audience chambers, most of the others headed to their suppers, he caught Glorfindel by the elbow and steered him very forcefully in the direction of the House of the Fountain. Glorfindel grinned a smug little grin down at the cobblestones and let himself be manhandled. When they were safely in Ecthelion’s sitting room, he shoved Glorfindel down into a low-backed chair.

“You are,” he hissed, digging in his pockets, “the most petty, provoking creature, I swear it. Now at last I can do what I’ve been longing to do all day.”

Glorfindel beamed up at him. “Oh yes?”

Ecthelion tugged his sorry excuse for a braid roughly, then began unbinding it with swift ungentle fingers.

Glorfindel’s expression became, if possible, even more smug. “I _knew_ you liked it loose. Dying to shake it down over my shoulders and have your way with me, were you?”

It was Ecthelion’s turn to be smug now, producing a comb from his robe pocket. “No. Dying to put it order once and for all.” And before Glorfindel could duck out of reach, he had a hand firmly in the loosed hair—not pulling, but gripping firmly enough that he could not pull his head any distance away—and was combing it out into sections.

Ecthelion had hardly thought of anything else all day. When he was done, even Glorfindel would look respectable, and not a single curl would straggle loose.


End file.
